


It's What You Need

by upstairs_brain



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Derek is a businessman, M/M, Stiles is a stripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upstairs_brain/pseuds/upstairs_brain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Stiles is a stripper/hooker at a shady gentleman's club. Derek is an out-of-town businessman who needs to relax. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/features: shameless smut, dirty talk, sex workers
> 
> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, I make no monetary gain, none of this is affiliated with the show, ect ect
> 
> alsdkjfks I haven't written anything in a really long time, y'all. I blame listening to 'Just a Little Bit' by Kids of 88 on repeat for the birth of this fic. For best results, listen to while reading.

Stiles hadn't intended to pick someone for a private dance. He'd picked up the shift as a favor to a friend, he wasn't even supposed to be here tonight, but there he had been. It should have been easy, more than easy, it should have been second nature to ignore the shark grin, the mirrored sunglasses the reflected Stiles back to himself, bent and wrong, the off-handed way the guy had held out hundreds, like they were so many singles. Stiles hadn't meant to catch his eye, hadn't meant to stare right the fuck at him as he'd worked a hand over his own chest and down his stomach, had wrapped sure and practiced fingers around the cool metal of the pole to lean back, nails running over his splayed thighs to the neanderthal shouts and cries of the crowd. He hadn't meant to slide down onto all fours, to arch and dip his back, to flex his slim and toned shoulders, hadn't meant to rub his bare belly to the floor of the stage, to slide forward right to him, tongue flicking out to drag along the back of a bill held out carelessly for him.

“I'm Derek,” he said over the pulse and pound of the music, as casual as you please, as if he hadn't just paid an obscene amount of money for the dubious honor of even getting this close to Stiles. His voice was liquid, cool and slick, moving over Stiles' cheek and down his throat, leaving a sweet taste in his mouth. “You're Stiles, if I heard right over the noise.” God, who the fuck did this guy think he was? Wearing sunglasses inside, handing out hundreds, talking to Stiles like he wasn't writhing around on a stripper stage dressed in a naughty school boy get-up that consisted of little more than stretchy black fabric that wrapped lovingly around Stiles' thighs and an open button-down shirt, a cheap polyester tie done incorrectly around his throat.

'Derek' had traveling businessman written all over him. Successful traveling businessman, though. The dark suit he wore felt like heaven against Stiles' fingers as he traced them down Derek's chest, liking the hard, solid feel of him immediately. The cut of it was tailored, and a lot of money had gone into making that shark smile as bright and white as possible, Stiles could tell. Traveling businessmen were the best and the worst, all at once. They liked to hand out bills like they were candy, and they usually had at least two numbers on them, but they were so damn handsy and didn't understand that they were only buying a dancer's time, not their skin or mouth or hole. At least, they weren't buying those most of the time.

“That's me,” Stiles finally purred out, plucking another bill from Derek's pocket, shameless. “If you don't like the noise, we could find some place a little quieter. You look like you can spare the time.” Fuck, he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to let this insane notion of getting his hands on Derek's body go any further than a little stage-side teasing. He wasn't even halfway through his set yet, and there were other there willing to pay just to watch him flash a little ass on the pole. But Derek was grinning at him again, smug and sure and infuriating, and yeah, that fucking settled it. Stiles had been on edge since clocking in, and two could play the pay and use game. He slid easily off the stage and into Derek's lap, gave a little roll of his hips, curled his fingers around the pretty silk tie at Derek's neck.

“Three hundred up front gets you as much time as you want.” He dragged his tongue along the shell of Derek's ear, and he could feel the guy's dick twitch at it, loved the sick thrill of power that shivered down his spine. He could also feel the bills getting slipped into the back of his shorts, slow and deliberate, one-two-three. Stiles doesn't doubt that they're hundreds, crisp and straight from a trust fund account. He was about to say 'follow me' when Derek stands up, hands strong and sure at Stiles' hips as he eased him to the floor, and he leaned in close, breath warm with just a bit of whiskey which was good, because Stiles fucking hated the drunk ones.

“Lead the way,” and he was so fucking smug that Stiles wanted to hit him as much as he wanted to kiss him. This was a first-class Bad Idea, but stressed didn't even begin to accurately describe how Stiles had been feeling, what with late on his rent, finals starting up next week, and his dad on his back about really applying himself this semester. There was a ringing in his ear as he shut the door to one of the quiet, empty back rooms. He had no sooner locked the door than Derek was on him, nearly rabid, cool facade dropped in favor for an animal that bit at Stiles' mouth, pretty white teeth sinking into the his lower lip.

A wet, needy sound escaped Stiles and he knew that he was done for. “Oh, fuck,” he said eloquently and there was a dark chuckle pushing into his mouth then, along with Derek's tongue. There was a long, hot moment where there was nothing to Stiles' world but yes and slick and lips. “You should have charged me more,” Derek growled into his ear, and Stiles huffed out a breathy laugh, because who the fuck said shit like that? He wasn't laughing when Derek slotted their hips together, huge hands splayed over Stiles' hips in a possessive way that made him shake and rut against the hard thigh that slid between his own legs. They rocked together like that, all sloppy kisses and clinging hands, stubble scrapes and hair pulling, for Stiles didn't know how long, until Derek had apparently had enough and all but threw Stiles to the ground, and oh Jesus, were they going to fight or fuck? Stiles honestly didn't care either way because this was-- this was yes, this was need, this was it, exactly it.

Their clothes didn't last long as they rolled on the floor together, biting and groaning and demanding. Dimly, Stiles was aware that his shorts were ripped beyond repair, a small pile of useless fabric tossed aside like so much trash as Derek stared at him, pale and exposed and hard, oh fuck was he ever hard. He was used to being looked at, but this was a level far beyond what he got from the stage. Derek's glasses had been tossed aside, and Stiles found that icy gray-blue gaze to be one of the hottest things he'd ever had the extreme pleasure of experiencing, and seriously, he got eye-fucked by strangers on a nightly basis.

“Touch me,” Stiles finally said, skimming a hand down to his cock, flushed and curved up toward his stomach. “Fuck, Derek, just--” he stuttered out, and then it was nothing but hands and mouth, all the fuck over him, fingers pulling at his nipples, teeth on his throat. God, he's built Stiles thought, hands grabbing at thick shoulders, nails moving down his solid chest, and oh, oh... “Big boy,” he murmured as he slid a finger along the length of Derek's dick, relishing the shudder that went through him. “Wanna fuck myself on it,” he continued, wet mouth pressed to Derek's ear, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the leaking slit, because he'd suddenly remembered that he was good at his job, and Derek had actually paid for him to be here.

“Wanna feel all that in my hole, Derek, understand? I want you to fuck me, I want you to make me fucking earn my pay, need you to keep this up, need you to--”

“Shut up,” Derek muttered, biting off the words, and Stiles gasped for breath against the strong hand that slapped over his mouth, honey-hazel eyes rolling back as he was jerked into Derek's naked lap. “I want you on your knees,” Derek said into Stiles' ear, and okay, Stiles could definitely get behind the way Derek's voice just did things to him. “I want you to touch yourself while I fuck you,” and as far as dirty talk goes, it was pretty standard, but oh god, the way he said it, like he fucking meant it...

“I can do that,” Stiles choked out, almost too far gone to even remember words, let alone how to move...

The noise that Derek made-- pretty damn close to a genuine growl-- as Stiles arranged himself was well worth the effort. Cheek pressed to the floor, shoulders down, his spine a graceful curve up to raised hips and open thighs, Stiles knew that he looked fucking good like this, working at his own cock, panting for breath. He's pretty sure he heard Derek say 'fuck, fuck, oh fuck' but it was hard to tell with those huge hands on him, moving over the curve of his ass, grabbing him and pulling him apart, the cool air hitting his skin like a smack, making Stiles shiver, a little helpless moan escaping between parted lips.

Derek knelt behind him, his cock is hot and heavy against Stiles' skin, his breath loud and harsh and the hottest thing Stiles had ever fucking heard, because Derek is panting for him, Derek wants him, Derek needs him and whoever the fuck Derek might actually have been in real life, right now, in this moment, he was all Stiles'. Stiles whined, a reedy, thin sound, strained with want, and Derek took that his cue, pressed the head of his dick into Stiles' worked open hole, the sound that from his chest was low and ragged. Stiles couldn't find it in himsef to make a sound, concentrating on breathing a little too much as he felt the stretch and cling of his body taking a cock in.

It felt fucking glorious, once Derek was seated in him, balls-deep, full and solid and so, so damn good. They set a rhythm easily, both wanted it hard, raw, fast. It was almost frantic, primal, more rutting than anything else, and it had Stiles going back on his knees, pressed back-to-chest with Derek, arms wrapped back around him, slim body posed perfectly while Derek fucked into him. The only noise in the room was the muted thump of base from the club proper, the harsh, uneven breathing of two men locked together. Derek came first, hard and fast and with little warning, his entire body shaking with the effort of keeping Stiles up, fucking his softening cock into Stiles again and again and again until Stiles was coming too, noisy with it, fingers fisted into Derek's hair, holding on tight as he spiraled down from the high, mouthing at the underside of Derek's jaw. A soft 'oh my fuck' passed his lips when he sank down to the floor, a mewling moan following the feel of Derek pulling out of him, come dripping down the inside of his thigh.

It was almost comical, how this was the awkward part. The cleaning, the redressing (at least in Derek's case, Stiles didn't even bother to go further than the shirt he had, glad it was long enough to cover most of his goods), trying not to meet one another's eye. Stiles was more than familiar with it-- buyer's remorse, he half-jokingly called it-- but it never got any easier to deal with, being reminded that he was, more or less, a piece of meat. Stiles turned to look at Derek just as he slid his sunglasses back on, and he couldn't help but to roll his eyes, an expression the other man caught, a slight upward tick on his mouth just barely detectable.

“You're ridiculous,” Stiles points out, handing Derek his tie, and a smile was tugging at his own mouth now because it wasn't all that awkward, maybe, if they could laugh at each other. Derek just grinned that shark grin again, laughing at a private joke, of which Stiles was the punchline, apparently. Not that Stiles really minded all that much, especially when Derek handed him a business card in exchange for his tie. “If you're ever in New York, look me up.” So, yeah, maybe Stiles hadn't meant for any of this happen, hadn't meant to catch Derek's attention, hadn't meant to feed his own need for something the break that tension in him, but still. Not bad for a night's work.


End file.
